A Frontier Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  Four more men came running out of the house then, all four shooting and screaming curses at the top of their voices. It wasn’t necessary for Duff to assign targets. The selection seemed to come naturally, and after an exchange of fire, all four men went down.

  “Dingo! Dingo!” someone called from inside the house. From the sound of the voice, Duff knew that it was the first one he’d shot, the man who had been hit in the arm. “Dingo, me ’n you is the only ones left! They’s only the two of us now!”

  “Shut up, you fool!” another voice called.

  “I’m goin’ out!” the first man called. “I’m givin’ myself up!”

  Shortly after that exchange, someone stepped out onto the front porch. He was holding one dangling bloody arm with his other hand. “I give up! Don’t shoot, don’t shoot! I can’t put my hands in the air!”

  “Come on. We’ll nae be shooting ye,” Duff said

  The man started across the open area between the house and the livery.

  Duff, who was still standing outside, held his fire.

  Suddenly there was a shot from within the house, and the man who was giving himself up fell forward.

  “Sure ’n ’twas not very smart of you, now, was it, Dingo? You’re the only one left.”

  “I’m comin’ out,” Dingo called from within the house. “Don’t shoot.”

  “All right. Come out. But if your hands aren’t in the air when you step through that door, you’ll be shot.”

  The door opened and Dingo, following Duff’s orders, walked out into the front of the building. Amazingly, he was smiling. “I expect you boys have come for the medicine.”

  “Aye, ’n we’ll be takin’ it now,” Duff said.

  “Hello, Dingo,” Elmer said.

  When Dingo saw Elmer, he laughed. “Elmer Gleason. Well, I’ll be damned. I thought you was no longer ridin’ the outlaw trail. Decided to go out on your own, did you? I know why you’re here now. You boys are plannin’ on takin’ the medicine, then gettin’ the twenty thousand dollars for yourself.”

  “Where is the medicine?” Elmer asked, not bothering to correct Dingo’s assumption.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Dingo said. “I was in for one third of this, but seein’ as you boys sort of have the upper hand now, I’ll make a trade with you for one fifth.”

  Suddenly, another shot came from the house, and Dingo, with a shocked expression on his face, fell facedown into the snow. There was a bleeding hole in his back.

  Duff pointed his pistol toward the front door of the house. “I’ll be asking ye to come out now, with your hands up!” he called.

  A woman came out, holding a pistol in her hand.

  “Drop the gun, lass,” Duff ordered.

  “He had nothing to trade,” the woman said as she dropped the pistol.

  “Sal,” Elmer said. “You’re still here? I thought you had left, long ago.”

  “I wanted to,” Bad Eye Sal said. “I tried, but he wouldn’t let me go.”

  “What did you mean when you said Dingo has nothing to trade?”

  “He doesn’t have the medicine,” Sal said. “I do.”

  EPILOGUE

  Rawhide Buttes

  With the quarantine lifted, and the afflicted cured, businesses had reopened, and everyone agreed that the decorations in Cora’s shop were the best. Even the men of the town came around to see the figures displayed around the Christmas tree.

  On the morning of December 25¸ the entire town was gathered at the school, which was presenting its Christmas play.

  Laura Hastings, wearing the angel costume Meagan had designed and sold, appeared to speak her lines. “Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.”

  After delivering her lines, Laura made a quick bow, then withdrew to give the others the opportunity to play their roles.

  The rest of the play continued without a hitch, then Miss Foley thanked everyone for coming and invited them to have cake, coffee, and cookies supplied by the parents of the schoolchildren.

  “You’re not upset with me for missing the dance?” Duff asked, after they took a piece of cake and a cup of coffee over to one of the tables that had been set up.

  Meagan smiled. “Duff, how can I be upset with you? If you hadn’t brought the medicine in time, I wouldn’t even be here now.” She took in the others with a wave of her hand. “A lot of these people wouldn’t be here now.”

  “But ye are aware, lass, that ’twas not just me. Elmer, Smoke, and Matt were there, too.”

  “Yes, and we can’t forget Sally. She was there with all of us for the whole time. It’s a wonder she didn’t come down with the illness herself.”

  Laura came walking over to them. “Mama told me to tell you thank you for making my costume. But she didn’t really have to tell me to do that. I was going to do it anyway.”

  “Well, you are very welcome, sweetheart,” Meagan replied. “And don’t you look beautiful in it?”

  “Thank you,” Laura said, beaming under the comment. She began looking around the room as if trying to find someone. “I wonder where she is? I thought she would be here for the Christmas play.”

  “Who are you looking for, honey? Are you looking for Miss Ensor? She’s here. She’s right over there talking to Miss Foley,” Meagan said.

  “No, not her. I’m talking about the lady who came to help me when I was really sick and couldn’t breathe. She said she would find you, and you would tell the doctor.”

  “What did the lady look like?” Meagan asked.

  “She was a very pretty lady. You know what I think? I think she was a angel. I mean a real angel, not just someone pretending to be an angel like me.”

  “You know what I think?” Meagan replied.

  “I know,” Laura said. “You think I’m silly.”

  “No, I don’t think that at all. I think you really did see an angel, with gleaming red hair, shining blue eyes, and a glowing silk gown.”

  “You saw her, too, didn’t you?” Laura said excitedly. “You’re right. She did have red hair!”

  “Yes, I saw her.”

  “I’m going to tell Mama that you saw her, too.” Laura hurried back across the room to find her mother.

  For the entire time Meagan and Laura were talking, Duff said nothing, but he did squeeze Meagan’s hand.

  “I know you think I just told her that I had seen her angel to make her feel good,” Meagan said.

  “No, I don’t think that at all. I think you did see Skye.”

  “Skye? Wait a minute. Duff, are you telling me that you saw her, too?”

  Duff smiled. “It would appear that Skye has had a very busy Christmas.

  THE GREATEST WESTERN WRITERS OF THE 21ST CENTURY

  William Johnstone and J. A. Johnstone have created a brilliant new series: a saga of two men—one a gunfighter, the other a Yankee lawman—building a future in the West’s most dangerous territory.

  WELCOME TO HANGTREE, TEXAS—THE MOST DANGEROUS PLACE IN THE WORLD

  In 1866, the border between the U.S. and Mexico is a hotbed of gunrunners, mercenaries, and the Emperor of Mexico’s spies, saboteurs, and double agents.

  Additionally, West Texas is plagued by Comanche warriors. Into this mix ride two massive gangs of the meanest, most kill-happy bunch of bloodthirsty ravagers to ever draw a breath.

  Sam Heller and Johnny Cross have got the marauders in their sights, but they aren’t ready for the slaughter and destruction the raiders unleash on Hangtree County. Suddenly the good guys in Hangtree are dangerously outnumbered. Sam and Johnny turn to cunning, pitting one gang against the other. And what that won’t do, a liberated army howitzer just might, as the border explodes into an all-out white-hot civil war.

  SAVAGE TEXAS: REBEL YELL

  by William
W. Johnstone

  with J. A. Johnstone

  On sale now, wherever books are sold!

  GONE TO TEXAS

  —Note posted on property abandoned by those who left Dixie for points west after the War

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Trust! That’s the heart and soul of the gunrunner’s trade,” Honest Bob Longford said. His statement was subject to doubt, if the reaction of his listeners was any gauge.

  Sully bridled, stiffening as if insulted. Hunchbacked Hump Colway sneered, muttering under his breath. Lank looked surprised. Fitch choked on his whiskey. He was drinking from a brown bottle, head tilted back, throat working as he guzzled.

  Honest Bob’s remark sank in, throwing Fitch off his rhythm. Fitch coughed and sputtered. The whiskey was raw, pungent. It went down the wrong pipe, burning like fire.

  Fitch’s head felt like it was exploding. Brown liquid spewed from his mouth and nostrils. He staggered, wheezing, gasping, eyes tearing. He was careful not to drop the bottle, though.

  Some of the outlaw gang laughed at him.

  Fitch would have cursed them, but he lacked the breath. He sat down hard in the dirt, still mindful to hold the bottle upright.

  “You made me choke on my redeye, Bob,” Fitch said, wiping tears from his eyes.

  “Reckon his remarks was a bit hard for you to swallow, eh, Fitch?” Half-Shot said slyly, working the needle.

  “I’m gonna have a little fun with Fitch,” Lank said, nudging Half-Shot in the ribs with an elbow. “Watch this.”

  “Uh-oh,” Hump Colway said.

  Lank went to Fitch and snatched the bottle from him. “Gimme that before you waste any more, hombre.”

  “Hey! Gimme that back,” Fitch wheezed.

  Lank raised the bottle to his mouth and started drinking.

  Fitch struggled to his feet. “Gimme that, you! I ain’t playing—” He lurched toward Lank, groping for the bottle.

  Lank warded off Fitch’s fumbling attempts with his free hand.

  “Don’t be like that,” Fitch growled

  “Better break this up before it gets out of hand.” But Hump made no move to interfere. He knew better.

  Fitch lunged, grabbing for the bottle. Lank sidestepped, evading. Fitch stumbled. He nearly fell but recovered

  Lank upturned the bottle. He gulped, gurgling and draining the last of the whiskey.

  Fitch crouched, breathing hard. “I’m ain’t funning, damn you.”

  “Give him the bottle,” Hump said.

  Lank lowered the bottle, his face red and flushed. “Sure. Catch!” He tossed the bottle underhand at Fitch.

  Moving with surprising speed, Fitch grabbed it out of the air. He held it upside down, a last scant few drops dribbling from the bottle. “Empty!”

  Lank’s shrug said, What of it?

  “You drunk it all to spite me,” Fitch accused.

  “I drunk it because I was thirsty,” Lank said. “Besides, you had enough—”

  Fitch threw the bottle at him. Lank dodged in time to keep from getting hit in the head.

  Fitch charged, barreling into him and knocking him off balance. He launched a looping roundhouse right, slamming Lank’s jaw with an audible thud. Lank went down, taking a pratfall.

  Some of the outlaw gang laughed, mainly those standing where Lank couldn’t see them. He was a bad man to cross. They all were.

  Lank sat up, dazed. Fitch stood ready, fists upraised.

  “You hit me!” Lank said wonderingly, rubbing the side of his swollen jaw. His eyes shone with a wild light. He grabbed for his gun.

  “Don’t!” somebody cried, but it was too late. It was always too late.

  Fitch drew first, firing before Lank’s gun cleared the holster. He pumped a couple quick shots into Lank.

  The reports were loud in the oven-like air, the smell of burnt gunpowder heavy.

  “Damn!” Half-Shot whispered, awed.

  A hush came over the gang.

  Lank flopped back down in the dirt, raising a small cloud of dust. His chest was shattered by three bullet holes. Blood pooled from them, so dark it was more brown than red, soaking his shirtfront.

  His eyes were open, unseeing. He looked puzzled, abstracted, as if trying to work some complicated sum in his head. His right leg kicked a couple times and then was still.

  “That tears it,” Honest Bob said. “He’s done.”

  “Ya reckon?” Sully said sarcastically, because he was that kind of hombre. Never an encouraging word.

  Fred Sullivan was his real name. Sullen Fred Sullivan, they called him. Sully.

  Fitch stood still, motionless, a line of gun smoke curling from the barrel of the gun in his fist. He shook his head as if trying to clear it.

  He turned, facing the rest of the gang. The gun turned with him, pointing at the outlaws but not at anyone in particular. Those in his line of fire were careful to keep their hands away from their guns and avoid making sudden moves. Or any moves at all.

  “You all seed it. Lank went for his gun first . . .”

  “We saw it, Fitch. Now put down the gun before anybody else gets hurt,” Honest Bob said.

  Drunk though he was, Fitch couldn’t help but see the humor in the sweet talk. He giggled. “Hurt? Hell, he’s daid!”

  “Easy does it,” said a voice behind Fitch. “You don’t want to kill nobody else. You don’t want to get killed yourself.”

  It was the voice of Sefton, standing with a gun to Fitch’s head. Fitch’s eyes widened when he felt the muzzle of the gun against the back of his skull.

  “Nothing personal, Fitch, but I surely will blow your head clean off if you don’t drop that gun. And I mean right now,” Sefton said calmly. He could afford to be calm—he had the drop on Fitch.

  Fitch swallowed hard, letting the gun slip from his fingers. It fell into the soft sandy soil without going off.

  Sefton swung the gun barrel hard against Fitch’s head. It hit with a thunk.

  Fitch staggered, going wobbly in the knees. He stayed on his feet, though. Sefton hit him harder, frowning. Fitch went down. Sefton’s frown smoothed out.

  Bending down, Sefton picked up Fitch’s gun. “He did enough damage with this already. Too much.”

  “Hang on to that gun. Fitch is gonna want it later,” Honest Bob cautioned.

  “So what? Who gives a damn what he wants?”

  “We’re gonna need every gun we’ve got when the Comanches show. Drunk or sober, Fitch can shoot.”

  “He sure proved that!” Half-Shot said.

  “We’d be in a fine fix if them savages showed now,” Honest Bob added. “They’d sure ’nuff catch us with our pants down!”

  That struck home with the others, because it was true. They looked around, scanning for Comanches, finding none. But that didn’t mean they weren’t somewhere near, hiding.

  A couple outlaws stood over Lank, eyeing him. Honest Bob went down on one knee beside the body for a closer look.

  “Dead?” somebody asked casually.

  “Dead as they come,” Honest Bob said.

  A harsh metallic smell of fresh-spilled blood came off the corpse. The bullet holes in Lank’s chest were closely spaced together.

  “Nice target grouping,” Honest Bob murmured admiringly.

  “I said that boy could shoot!” Half-Shot cackled.

  “Yeah, if he gets any better, we won’t have any men left,” Sully said sourly.

  “Can’t say I cared too much for Lank. He was always trying to get at a fellow, like a burr under the saddle.” Half-Shot said.

  “Him and you both,” Hump Colway cracked.

  Half-Shot gave him a dirty look, but Hump ignored it. “Lank won’t play no more of his sly tricks,” Half-Shot mused.

  “He tried them on the wrong man this time, that’s for sure,” Hump agreed.

  Honest Bob rose, brushing dust off the knees of his pants. “Got to get that body out of sight. Can’t let the Comanches see that. Dead white man’s liable to give them idea
s.”

  “They don’t need to see Lank for that. They already got plenty of ideas on that score,” Sully said.

  “Some of you men get some shovels and bury him,” Honest Bob ordered. He was the leader of the gang, at least out on the plains where the day’s mission was concerned.

  Hump Colway drifted away, making himself scarce, a habit of his when hard work was involved.

  Honest Bob’s beady-eyed gaze fell on Half-Shot and Sully. Although there were plenty of men in the gang, they were the nearest to hand. And their gun-handling skills were only fair to middling compared to some of the others, an important consideration.

  “Get to it, you two,” Honest Bob snapped. “Don’t plant him near the water or the horses.”

  Half-Shot and Sully stayed in place, not moving.

  “What’s the problem? You deaf or something?” Honest Bob demanded.

  Half-Shot held his hat in his hands, turning it around by the brim, fidgeting. “It’s too damn hot for any grave digging,” he said at last. Sully nodded in sullen agreement.

  Honest Bob thought it over and decided not to push it. There’d already been one senseless killing. “What do you suggest?” he asked, throwing it back to them, trying in vain to keep the harshness out of his voice.

  “Dump him behind some rocks out of sight,” Sully said.

  Half-Shot looked like he was thinking it over. “That’ll do for a start, but pile some rocks on top of him so wild animals can’t get at him.”

  “Want to hold services over him, too?”

  “Hell, Sully, that’s the least we can do. After all, Lank was one of us.”

  “Didn’t you just get done saying you didn’t like him?”

  “Haul him out of sight and pile some rocks on him,” Honest Bob said. “Get two more men to help you out. Tell them I said so.”

  That seemed reasonable. Half-Shot and Sully dragooned two of the gang’s smaller fry, lesser even than they, into helping. Each took hold of a limb by ankle or wrist, lifted Lank off the ground, and lugged him a stone’s throw away, behind some boulders.

  There was no shortage of boulders at the secret meeting place under the cliffs on the Texas plains. Numerous rockfalls and landslides had peeled off from the scarp. The burial detail picked up rocks from the ground, covering up Lank.